


Grace

by baudown



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, POV Spike, Pining, Terrible at tagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-22
Updated: 2011-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:54:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baudown/pseuds/baudown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Season 4 AU.  Spike looks for one thing, and finds another.  Companion piece to Saved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grace

**Author's Note:**

>  The same incident described in Saved, from Spike's POV.  First time writing Spike's POV, and I struggled.

 Disclaimer:  I don't own them.  Wish I did.  
 

 

 

 

These, the things they've taken from me.

The sound of someone screaming. The sight of terror taking shape. The feel of flesh as it gives way. The taste of blood, still pulsing. The taste of life, in death.

Denied these things, I'm forced to find my pleasure where I can.

Words, my only weapons. Words, and knowing how to use them. Where to aim them. Where they need to land. Locating the exposed nerve, the unhealed wound, turning the ache to agony -- this is an art. I've learned it, from an expert. He practiced, endlessly, on me.

The boy is good for this. The best of them. His pain so near the surface, he almost wears it on his skin. Eyes beautiful, hurt and dark, like bruises. Damaged. It's been practiced on him, too. I think, the father.

Not hard to find those places in him. They're everywhere. An offhand comment, an idle remark, a jab in jest, all injure him. I've seen it, with his friends. The young are careless. They never see. He uses jokes, and foolishness, like armor. Always hiding. I've done this, too, in other ways. It's the weakness you conceal that owns you. But that's my story.

He didn't want me here. To him, a punishment. A gift, to me. Anger, despair, grief, regret, frustration, sadness, fear -- the things I seek in him, each day, and find. One layer of suffering, peeled away, reveals another, and then, another, and after that, still more. This boy. This boy.

The ecstasy, to see his quivering lip. The moisture on his lashes, blinking back his tears. I want those tears to fall. I dream of tasting them. The sorrow in them. This boy.

His eyes on me, every moment. There's begging in his eyes. Begging me to stop, I thought. To end it. To spare him. But now, I think he begs for more. More, from me. I understand that cowering need. Hurt me, so you see me. How much I wanted, from my tormentors, too. But what more can I give? My hands can't mark him. I can't draw blood.

Tonight, the answer, as he winds the rope around me. He's hard, so hard, and when I see his face, I know that it's for me. The desperation, the rapture there. I've seen that look before -- not for me, not even once -- but reflected in the eyes of those I've loved. It's how I looked at them. The look He always scorned, and used against me. The look that She indulged, impatiently, with absent, empty smiles. The look that said I'd easily be broken, that pled with them to break me, that swore I'd thank them for it. And now, unknowingly, he asks this for himself. This, I can do to him. This, the very worst, to him.

His anxious fingers, at my waist, undressing me. I lift my hips, I help him lay me bare. So hard, now, that I tremble. He sees me, and I hear him breathe, a sound of adoration. His hand, closing around me, reverent. His mouth, instead of taking, humbly asking. His gratitude. There's something different here, in being touched this way.

The scent of his desire. His want. How he wants all of me, inside him. There's worship in his mouth, his tongue, his throat. His head bowed, pledging his devotion. My hand upon his neck accepts. He'd let me take his life like this. I think he would. All this, he gives to me. And when I come, shuddering, straining, frenzied, and everything goes gray, I feel him coming, too. His hands are on my thighs. He hasn't touched himself. He came from giving this to me.

This is the moment. The moment to laugh, and pull away; to spit, and turn my back; to act as if he sickens me; or worse, as if it all meant nothing. To take away his hope. To fill him with self-loathing. To ruin him.

This is how to break a boy. In this way, I was broken, every time.

But when he lays his cheek upon my hip. When he wraps his arms around my waist. When he looks at me. How brave he is, this boy. I never dared to look.

His eyes, shining. No hurt in them, but something else -- it’s happiness. He's happy, now. So happy, now. Because of me. And this is what I crave, more than fear, or pain, or sorrow, or blood, or even death. This need, that a century of trying hasn't changed. A blessing, or a curse, I'm helpless to it. No choice, I let the current take me, and hope to land on shore.

Whatever happens now, if this, for him, is a just a passing madness, if he remembers what I am, and turns away in shame, I'm his. This boy. This perfect boy.

The light in him, when I touch his face, and when I speak his name.

 

 

 

 


End file.
